Obys
by My Broken Quill
Summary: This is the beginning of the rest of my life. This is everything I’ve wanted for years now. This is the moment that I’ll reminisce about to my grandchildren.


**AN: I know ... it has been a while. Life is a little crazy at the moment and I've started work too so I don't have as much time as I once did. I missed you all though so I quickly wrote this up just to prove that I'm not dead. Sorry for the mistakes, I know they're there and will fix them as soon as I can.**

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**Obys**

This is the beginning of the rest of my life. This is everything I've wanted for years now. This is the moment that I'll reminisce about to my grandchildren.

So naturally I've spent a small fortune on clothes, jewels and other necessary accessories, and the best part of a week preparing for it.

I'm talking daily visits to a well recommended - ludicrously expensive - spa to have my … bits trimmed, waxed - and maybe shined … My eyebrows, upper lip and every other hairy region on my poor, poor body has been tortured into going against nature. And now, when I go to buy makeup, the sales clerks smile and call me by name. They love me.

After visiting hundreds of stores I have settled on an outfit - and lost weight in the process too! I wasn't sure what look to go for at first, the first look - ankle length suede skirt, white pheasant blouse, hand knitted brown cardigan and chunky heeled sandals, screamed 'tree hugger,' and … yes I'll admit, a little staid. Does Logan look like he wants staid? Just look at Jean, she wore red and had him drooling at her feet within minutes of meeting him.

Note to oneself, wear something red.

So I tried another look. Tight-enough-to-give-me-the-mother-of-all-wedgies brand name jeans, spaghetti strapped top with a naughty (arrest-me kind of naughty) neckline and red heels that Jubes promised was meant to clash with my outfit on purpose. I looked like Santa's ho. I've had a peep inside Logan's head, and sure he's slept with Darlas and Stellas and Charlenes who dressed like this but I wanted repeat performances for the rest of my life, not a back alley romp and the sight of the back of his head as he legs it a few hours later while wondering what STD his mutation is healing now.

There were fifty sixother looks, but I finally settled on this. Demure black skirt with seed pearls scattered on the hemline but a slit on the side that went high enough to tell him that I'm not a child anymore, and that I have curves, and girly bits (shiny girly bits) - paired with skin coloured pantyhose, a cute cream coloured silk top with ruffled sleeves - says 'playful' but not the 'put-me-in-the-sandbox' kind, long silk opera gloves with opal buttons, moderate sized hard cased clutch with jewelled inlays and cute kitten heeled Italian leather shoes that cost me a mint. Even though it was necessary, after this I'm going to pack them away in cotton wool and only touch them with gloves on.

In all … I've spent … one zero, two zeros … three … THAT much?! Jesus Christ! Logan better marry me before the next date because I really can't afford to keep doing this every time he asks me out.

Yep. Me and Logan. Logan and I. Logan + Marie. Mrs Logan. Mrs Marie Logan. Mrs - jeez I'm pathetic. Keep the crazy inside until the poor bastard says 'I do' Marie.

So when I open the door looking, smelling and feeling like a million bucks - almost literally - I'm surprised to see Logan standing their looking like Logan. Usual denims, usual scuffed leather jacket, ugly paisley shirt - got to remember to burn that after we marry, and usual hairstyle. I mean, I never expected him to go to as much trouble as I did, but for god's sake! I let people do stuff to my neither regions! And I let them do it so often that I've become a valued client with a discount for _any _service. The least he could do was at least try a different hairstyle, wear a new shirt … not turn up _two _hours later then he'd said he would come.

"You look nice," he says with a grin, already turning around to lead me outside. No apologies forthcoming.

"Thank you," I grit out, running to keep up with him. "It was nothing really … no trouble at all - just threw on what I already had, took five minutes and then you were here. Didn't wait for you at all." I don't think he's even listening.

If we do get married I'm keeping my last name.

"Hop on."

I gape at him. "The bike?" I ask with a small tremor in my voice. It took me four swipes of my credit card and three hours today alone to get my hair in the sophisticated loose bun with casual curls tumbling strategically out, held up by a couple of cans of hairspray and a delicate gilt and pearl hairclip.

He frowns, "yeah, of course the bike. Why?" Stupid man. Our first son is so going to be named Scot.

"Oh, nothing. No reason. None at all." I try to get on the bike then realise that I'm wearing a skirt, so I hike the damn thing up as high as I dare then scuttle onto it sideways like a demented crab.

"Here's the helmet."

Every single one of our sons are going to be called Scot.

By the end of the ride I've decided that our daughters will be called Scot too. But when I see where he's taking me I decided that I'm not going to let the bastard impregnate me at all.

"Are we here?" I ask in the hope that he'll shake his head and navigate me to the classy restaurant hidden behind 'obys Pit.' Whatever the first letter was it's gone now and obviously 'oby' doesn't know much about punctuation either.

He grins and hops off the bike, I scuttle off and push my creased beyond recognition skirt back down, scowling at the ladders in my brand new tights. "Yep, come on."

It's a fight den. The kind with a box spray painted on the floor and smelly, topless men making other men bleed. Accompanied by smelly, topless women with long fake nails that look sharp enough to do some bleeding of their own.

Screw impregnation, he's not having sex with me at all.

"Grab a table, I'll be right back," my poor soon to be celibate husband says as he marches off, leaving me in this melee by myself. I look around, aghast and notice that a group of women are sizing me up, their expressions scarily similar to Logan when faced with Sabretooth.

I force myself to give them a friendly, albeit wary, smile then scuttle away to look for a table. There is only two that is not crowded with people. One is covered in beer bottles and has apparently been used as an ashtray. And the other has a lurid green thong with yellow tiger stripes on it.

You know what, Logan is getting sex, maybe even quite often but I'll be wearing similar attire to what is furnishing that table every time I sleep with him.

But he'll probably like that. Screw it, no sex for him.

"Urgg," I complain under my breath as I made my way to the other table. It's filthy of course but at least here I only have to worry about used glasses … "_Urgg!_"

Where the hell are the chairs?

"Hey, you found a table," Logan says, pushing his way through a throng of girls who press up against like him horny tomcats then shoot wary looks back at their men folk.

I try to glare at them then desist when a woman in Daisy Dukes glares back at me. She could so take me. "Yep. Where are the chairs?"

"Oh, no chairs allowed here."

I frown up at him, "why not?" Miss Daisy is still watching me, she has biceps that could put Logan to shame. I can't get killed by a Jessica Simpson/WWE wannabe so I shoot her a smile.

She doesn't smile back.

"Oh, people kept hitting each other with the chairs so it's banned now."

…

I don't quite know what to say to that.

"You know her?" Logan asks with a grin, nodding in Miss Daisy's direction. I shake my head, still dumbfounded at the idea that not only has he taken me to a bar, but a bar that has had to ban furniture. "You sure make friends fast."

"Oh … yeah," I say weakly, "we just seem to have … so much in common …" But apparently the desire to wear underwear isn't one of them, nor a bra. I look over at the other table and its acid green centrepiece, wondering if that is hers. Maybe I should give it back to her … if I lost my underwear I'd want someone to give it back to me.

A rail thin girl with breasts the size of watermelons wearing perhaps half a handkerchief - and a see through one at that - comes _jogging _our way. Apparently her nipples got very cold as soon as she saw Logan.

"Order?" she asks, undressing him with her eyes while I silently pray for her soul - take the girl out of the South and all.

"Uh … beer for me, keep it coming. Marie?" Well, at least he's not ordering for me. Maybe I'll let him touch my palm once a month. But only in the dark and never on a Sunday.

"Wine," I tell the girl who immediately looks at me like I had asked for a couple of pounds of dynamite and the directions to the White House. Logan snickers.

_That's it_. Not even palm sex for him.

"Coke," I tell her with a scowl.

Her face clears up, "we don't sell that at the counter but if you ask for Frankie he'll hook you up with some real good shit."

… What?

Logan is now laughing.

Wha … oh! Oh! _Everyone _here is going to burn in hell.

"Thanks, I'll make a note of that," I tell her with gritted teeth, "can I just have a glass of water please."

The girl notes it down and disappears, giving us a perfect view of her arse and the type of underwear she prefers. Apparently animal print is very in.

I am this close to complaining when Logan thrusts his coat into my lap and I momentarily lose consciousness when his shirt and vest follows. From the cat calls he's getting I'm not his only admirer.

"Why are you stripping? … What kind of place is this!?"

He sniggers at my exclamation and chugs down a bottle of chilled beer that our waitress has come jogging back with. "I'm up next," he tells me, then grins, "why, you jealous? Don't worry darlin' I'll give you a free uncensored show when we get back home."

…

Mmmm.

_Mmmmmmmmm_.

What? Where am I? Who am I?

- Wait.

"Wait, you're fighting?" I ask him.

He grins wider, "disappointed?"

"No!" Yes. "You are _not _fighting Logan."

"Relax, I'll be alright. You know that."

"I don't care! I don't want you fighting."

Someone begins screaming for the Wolverine. He shrugs at me, 'what can I do?' expression on his face and pulls me with him to the front of the ring. A man that looks like his mother mated with the Minotaur is already pacing the box, he could have been used as a Schwarzenegger double, but only if Arnold ever done a movie where he had a spider tattooed over his face and more scattered randomly over his body. Boy … he could never marry an arachnophobic.

Logan gives him a once over then dismisses him with a snort. Of course that pisses baby Minotaur off majorly and the ensuing skirmish has my stomach churning. Logan lets the other guy kick him around for the first few minutes and then he starts kicking back. And when Logan kicks back … well, it doesn't last long.

"The _winner _… Wolverine!" announces the MC amidst much booing. Of course I'm not booing … I'm jumping around like a teenager at a Justin Timberlake concert, jeering at Spiderface as loud as I can.

Logan strutted back over to me, one hand folding a thick wad of money into his jeans pocket, a smug grin on his face. "You had me kind of distracted Marie, otherwise I would've finished up a lot earlier." I look back at him, peeping discretely at those rippling, sweaty muscles, perplexed as to how I had distracted him. "What with all that bouncing …" he clears it up for me, a playful smirk on his face as his eyes travel south, then a little west, then a little east.

Okay, so maybe he's going to get sex after all. Hot, sweaty, half our clothes on kind of sex. Maybe even tonight if he keeps his shirt off.

He takes his shirt from my shaking hands and buttons himself back up.

Momentary madness overcome … this Southern gal ain't puttin' out on the first date … nuh uh. Not me … God I wish I could …

"Come on, I'm fucking hungry," he yells over the noises of people booing over two new contenders. Another tattoo riddled guy who seems to be into dead people facing a hefty bloke with meat hook hands. I follow him back to our table, he yells for the waitress, tells her our orders.

"Here you go," she chirps, breasts so close to Logan's face that I want to scream sexual harassment, then tell her the benefits of wearing a bra. I mean, she's young and perky now, but in ten years time …

I look down at our food and forget all about our waitress's breasts. Is it meant to look like this? Swimming in oil and coated in salt? I look over at Logan's plate, his looks the same, except worse since he has just doused his fries and chicken pieces with so much mayo that his fries are almost floating.

Note to oneself, put Logan on a diet and have Jean - no Hank - check his blood pressure.

"Excuse me!" I yell over the din - it seems that big and hefty is now attempting to stand on the other guys head - "I can't eat this. It's got way too much oil in it."

She looks at me, confused, "well … we cook it in oil."

I swear, how can she be that skinny and work in a place like this. I can feel my thighs swelling up from just sniffing the fat on my plate. "Can I have it re-done? With less oil please."

She sighs, pops her gum and takes my plate back. Gets me another and plonks it in front of me. "We'll be charging you for the other one too." It doesn't look any different.

Charming.

Logan, busy watching me with an arched brow as he shovels chicken strips inside his mouth at an alarming pace, stops to swallow, "you know, she probably spat in that."

I drop the fry I was drying on a napkin back on my plate in disgust, glaring resentfully at him as he starts laughing at me.

We are so back to no sex. In fact, after we marry I'm going to eat this kind of food everyday - for every meal. We'll see how he likes it when I'm heavier then a baby whale and still insist on being on top - and then maybe he'll take me to places where salads aren't just the withered onions on the greasy burger.

Ten minutes in I was actually beginning to enjoy myself, we talked, Logan let me snag a few mayo free fries from his plate and we kind of began to flirt. It was going good - which is why something bad had to happen.

Forget Murphy, they should have named it Marie's Law.

"Hey you," we both turned to see who was talking to us. It was Spiderface, looking fantastically colourful now, what with all the bruises Logan gave him, and a bunch of his friends. "Think you can come into _my _place and beat _me_? Think it's that fucking easy?"

Logan has this thing. A little problem. See, he has no self control what so ever. So as soon as Spiderface completed his sentence Logan sent him crumpling to the floor with one solid punch. Which is when Spiderface's friends started hurling themselves at him.

I screamed, got out of the way and watched in alarm as one reed thin guy picked up our plates and bottles.

"For gods sake you ban chairs but don't ban plates?" I yelled at no one, shrieking as the guy hurled the plate like a Frisbee, Logan ducked, a poor bystander wasn't so lucky.

Spiderface, who I had thought was out for the count, stumbled to his feet, surveying Logan systematically laying his friends out to dry. Then he wrapped his hands around our table - our bolted to the goddamn floor table - and pulled. It took three tries, but he got the thing off and then he was swinging it towards Logan.

"_Oh Jesus!_" I swore as I hoisted my skirt up as high as it could go and took a flying leap. Landing on the guys back and wrapping my legs around his waist, cloth covered nails scrabbling for his face.

He screamed and tried to pull me off, would have succeeded to if I hadn't started battering him with my clutch.

Logan, busy showing off with one guy who moved like Bruce Lee on PCP, saw the trouble I was in and headed my way, giving Bruce Lee an opening, taking the blow and then head butting him hard enough to have his nose explode.

Spiderface saw Logan approaching, he yelled for someone and suddenly I was airborne.

I landed on my back, looked up a pair of denim hot pants to find out that she preferred the airstrip but hadn't cleaned up in a while, and that it was Xena the Warrior Simpson above me.

"Oh dear god," I squealed, scrabbling to my feet, "parley!" I give up right here, right now.

I don't think she's seen Pirates of the Caribbean though, or if she had, she too agreed that it was more guidelines then rules, because she clamped her fingers into my hair and gave me one hell of a punch.

And that's all from me folks.

G'night.

**X**

"_Marie_. Marie, wake up. Come on, wake up."

Someone was pissing on my face.

I sputtered up in alarm, found myself lying on the ground outside 'obys' with Logan kneeling next to me, a dirty glass of water in one hand.

"Hey …" he looked worried. "You okay?"

I nodded, winced and tried to get to me feet, Logan helped me when I stumbled. "What happened?"

He fought a smile, "you uh … you got punched in the face."

"… Did I win?"

He sniggered, tried to look concerned, shook his head.

Now the biggest question. "Do I look … bad?"

"No." Said rather quickly if I do say so myself.

I push him away, stumble towards the blacked out window (what kind of guy would need to paint his windows black?) of a big truck and stare at my reflection.

"…" That's me being speechless.

I look awful. I'm filthy. Most of my seed pearls are gone, my kitten heels are scuffed beyond repair and one heel is broken, my clutch is missing, my hair looks like I've stuck it into a tumble drier with a pound of glue instead of washing detergent, and my face … That is one hell of a shiner.

"It doesn't look that bad …" Logan says, a hopeful smile on his face.

I swivel around, spitting in fury. "Doesn't look bad! This doesn't look bad? That is it! Screw marriage and children, you're not even getting a second date! I nearly got killed on the first one, the second one might just finish me off!"

"Wow. _Wow_, wait," Logan says, looking alarmed, "lets not get too hasty-"

"You want to see hasty?" I stuck my hand inside his jeans pocket, pulled out the roll of money and stomped my way to the main road. Logan followed me, eyes wide, watching as I start waving my arms up and down as if trying to fly.

A taxi pulls over, I stumble towards it.

"Marie, Jesus Marie, _calm down_," he yells, running after me. I snarl at him, yank the taxi door closed and yelled the Mansion address to the cabbie. "Wait, wait! Come on, give me another chance, let me make it up to you -" The taxi starts to drive, Logan jogged to keep up with it. "Please Marie! One chance goddamnit, come one, one chance-"

"Stop," I yell at the taxi driver, who rolls his eyes at me but presses the break. "One chance?" I ask Logan, eyes slitting then wincing at the pain. "You want another chance?"

He nods eagerly, his usual nonchalance gone and I can't help but revel smugly in the fact that for once it's him trying hard to please me. Him chasing me. God, it's glorious.

"Fine. One chance. Mess up, and that's it," I threaten, hoping that he won't know I'm lying. I mean come on, I've wanted this oaf for years, it's so entrenched in me now that he could push me away and I'd still go trailing after him, tongue dragging on the floor.

He doesn't need to know that though.

"I won't, I swear I won't mess up," he promises quickly, looking deliciously alarmed at the prospect of loosing me. A girl could get drunk on all this power.

"Okay, fine. You can take me on another date. Somewhere nice this time - with chairs please, and I'd prefer if my waitresses didn't have globes attached to their chests, which they then proceeded to attach to you too."

He grimaces, "what … like a restaurant?"

"Yes, a restaurant," I snap at him, "and you have to look smart for me." He grimaces again. "I mean it Logan, romance me. A nice suit, a shave …" I wonder if I can get away with making him go visit my beautician, get him in for a wax treatment, see how he likes the pain that we women suffer through so that we can look pretty for him.

Nah, he might decide I'm not worth it.

"Well?" I ask, noticing the droop in his shoulders. "You okay with that or should I tell -"

"Gerry," the taxi driver supplies.

"Thank you - I had a cousin called Gerry, a right little tit - or should I tell Gerry to go?" I continue.

Logan looks like someone had told him that Santa's elves aren't tall, leggy women in green tights and bustiers, but tiny little men with pointy ears. "Romance you?" he asks, looking so lost that I want to cuddle him. "Like flowers and all that shit?"

Okay, no cuddles for him.

"Yes!" I gripe, then turn back to Gerry. "Gerry, lets go. And if you take me to where I live without raping and killing me I'll give you all his money and a kiss on the doorstep. How does that sound?"

Gerry grins, "brilliant."

I nod, "well step on it. Oh and Logan?" Poor guy, looks like I hit him with a cement truck. "The date, it's next Saturday. You may pick me up at six - if you're late, I'll kill you and phone Gerry. I bet he'd know how to treat a girl well."

Gerry grins, shrugs at a bewildered Logan, "what can I say, the girls love cuddly guys. They don't call it love handles for nothing you know."

And with that, we left him behind.

As for Gerry, he was a complete prick. All hands - I don't think I'm going to call him after all.

Now … what will I wear to my second date?

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**AN: Love will always make me come back. so will reviews. yep. still shameless.**


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